


Liquor Lovely

by pastomatoes



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Blow jobs are nice, Don't Judge Me, Drunk Sex, First Time Topping, I have no idea why this happened but, M/M, Multi, No shame, PWP, Parent/Child Incest, Shameless Smut, Sibling Incest, Someone take my laptop away, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, also drugs were probably involved, brb gonna go wash my hands, daddy kink galore, foursome???, francis totally organized this whole thing, i can't handle this, i'm the definition of a mess, kind of idk - Freeform, seriously it's unbelievable, someone save me, the kink is real, there's a spot reserved for me in hell, when i say probably i mean definitely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2015-08-06
Packaged: 2018-04-13 06:39:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4511766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pastomatoes/pseuds/pastomatoes





	Liquor Lovely

Arthur isn't entirely sure how he got here.

All he knows is that the air is heavy against his body, the smell of liquor and smoke and sex (god, the smell of sex) stifling until he's not breathing just oxygen but lust, pure and solid. It hazes his jade orbs and bubbles through his veins all the way up to his brain, clouding his mind, and he's vaguely aware that something's missing- his modesty, perhaps- because all he knows now is the physical crave for touch. He had vowed to leave the gentleman behind at the door for tonight. There is no grief in his actions, no shame, no scrutiny from within himself.

Just honest-to-god lust.

"Aren't they lovely?" A voice, thick, accented, charming, so charming that Arthur's breath catches if only a little. It comes from his left, close. There's a finger, too, slender, long, and it's making swirling motions on his thigh, both a tease and a promise of what is to come with the night.

Arthur shifts on the couch, sitting comfortably next to Francis, melting, it seems, into the Frenchman's ghosting touches. Arthur's gaze meets the tattered rug on the floor, scales up to stare intently at the twins kneeling in front of them. He inhales shakily, overcome with trembles so violent they rack his body.

"Yeah," he whispers, breathless. And they are… Lovely, that is. More than lovely. Exotic. Beautiful. Disheveled. Their hands are everywhere, needy, desperate, urgent, sliding up the other's bare chest, all toned stomachs and firm arms. A gaze passes between the two, and when they kiss, _finally kiss_ , their lips meet with a heated familiarity. Matthew's hands slide over Alfred's head, gripping tightly onto nearly-identical blond locks, tangling there, tugging in a dance of fingers and strands. Matthew appreciates the unhurried sliding of their lips, adores the way Alfred's roughness melts with the touch of his hands, taming Alfred's mouth with the quiet persuasion of pleasure.

Arthur thought he was hot and bothered as it was, but when Alfred looks over, half-lidded baby blue eyes, inviting Arthur to join in the fun as his tongue pokes out of his mouth and forces its way into Matthew's, prodding, probing, curling behind white teeth, tickling the ridges on the roof of Matthew's mouth-

_Oh, so lovely._

"You can touch them," Francis offers, sated for now by just the sight of the brothers. Arthur's breath hitches in his throat. The idea is almost enough to make him weep, but after a moment of composing himself and trying to ignore the knowing, drunken smirk playing at Alfred's lips, a smirk like he's winning some game the others aren't aware of, Arthur slides off of the couch and onto the floor to join them.

He kneels, close enough to see the color flush from the swell of Matthew's bottom lip when Alfred bites it, close enough to see it fade to a dark red when it's released with a sharp tug of Alfred's pearly teeth, and Jesus… They're so wonderfully vulnerable, so heartbreakingly innocent, even now, even as Alfred pulls away from Matthew's lips, a string of saliva connecting their mouths, and starts pressing sloppy, open-mouthed kisses to the Canadian's neck, staring up at him from below with glossy blue eyes… Even then, so young. 

Arthur wants to be a part of it, but he also doesn't want to break the rhythm Alfred sets as he starts sucking vulgarly on Matthew's bobbing Adam's apple. Nipping. Nibbling. He earns a sharp inhale from Matthew, who shuts his eyes and tilts his head back, giving Alfred more skin to work with. It's gorgeous to watch, they're both beautiful, both gifted, so well-endowed, it's not fair…

"Boys, Arthur looks awfully lonely, non?" Francis' voice again, slicing through the muggy, heated air, and Arthur lets out a short puff of relief through his nose, glad to have the attention drawn to him. It's painful, almost, how well Francis can read him, how badly he knows he wants this, how long he's been waiting, not just those long minutes on the couch as he witnessed the twins kissing, but years, he's wanted this for _years_ -

Matthew runs his fingers through Alfred's locks one last time, almost as if he were a beloved pet, before gripping the hair and pulling Alfred forcibly away from his neck. Matthew motions to Arthur, reminding Alfred of Francis' words, and Alfred grins, lips pulling back as understanding takes root. He makes his way over to the Englishman and before Arthur can think there are- 

_Lips_. Warm, wet, well-used lips against Arthur's. They're demanding yet pleasantly mellow, _pay attention to me_ , and they attempt to pry Arthur's mouth open, seeking the rich taste of Arthur mingled with liquor and cigarettes. Alfred lets his tongue chase the rim of Arthur's mouth, and when he finally accomplishes the task of opening Arthur's lips he sucks on Arthur's tongue to his heart's content with a slow bobbing of his head, hallowing his cheeks as if offering to suck on something larger.

Alfred pulls away with a playful nip to Arthur's bottom lip, tugging it back with a smirk before leaning in close and whispering a welcoming, breathless, downright filthy, " _You wanna play, Daddy?_ " 

Arthur moans, wrecked and defeated, surrendering completely as he manages the only words he can remember, a hot "Yes, god, yes-" And Alfred kisses him again, understanding, quieting. He swallows Arthur's following whimpers, drinks them until Matthew elbows him delicately out of the way. 

A hand, gentle but firm- soothing, yes, some of the tension dissipates, _yes_ \- snakes into Arthur's trousers, wrapping around his throbbing erection. Arthur looks down, is surprised to trace the arm back to its owner and find it belongs to Matthew, but then, he supposes he shouldn't be too surprised. Matthew has always had confidence, maybe not to the degree of his brother, no, but still present somewhere deep down inside, hidden behind a mask of polite apologies and mumbled "excuse-me's." There's soft-spoken conviction in his actions, unrestrained beauty in his movements, silent ardor in his touches, a burning desire to please; _yes, Matthew, you are lovely, too, I promise…_

Arthur's thoughts are cut off when the hand removes itself from his trousers and then there are fingers, nimble and tentative, plucking at the buttons of his black dress shirt. And Arthur is helpless, then, under those fingers; they're so nice, how had he not noticed them before? Matthew smiles at him like he's reading his mind, pushing the shirt open with featherlight fingertips and proficient palms.

Alfred moves behind Arthur on his knees, pulls the Brit's hands behind him, holding them there in the small of his back, captive with Alfred's arousal evident against his ass. The American presses a kiss to Arthur's neck, one that's deep and wet and makes Arthur shiver. Those beautiful lips drag up to the shell of his ear and Arthur thinks that Alfred must be whispering something, but he can't understand, can't hear, can't… 

Arthur's chest rattles, quivering, and when Matthew's mouth lands, without warning, on his nipple, all Arthur can do is gasp and writhe uselessly. Alfred doesn't laugh at Arthur's eager response to Matthew's ministrations, just suckles on the tip of the Englishman's ear with the occasional pressing caress of his wonderful tongue as Matthew works at licking a stripe up Arthur's abdomen, muscles taut but quaking.

Matthew laps with quick strokes of his wide tongue, dipping into Arthur's belly button before gliding to his collarbone, and Arthur's glistening within moments. Those skilled lips are on Arthur's nipple again, teeth clamping down before releasing and licking with a swirling tongue as if in apology. Arthur's head falls back against the shelf of Alfred's shoulder, panting.

Matthew's fingers curl around Arthur's belt and pull his hips forward until they meet his. The friction is wonderful, _dear god_ , it's wonderful, and Arthur grunts his approval as Matthew rolls his hips, letting their groins rub deliciously. The younger of the twins bites his bottom lip coyly, looking at Arthur with wide, violet eyes, and Arthur thinks vaguely that Matthew is really quite pretty. He's not broad but lean, not looming but polite. His presence is refined, feminine, almost… 

"…wanna taste you," Alfred murmurs, dipping his head to let his lips flirt with Arthur's jawline, reminding the Englishman of his presence. "Can I, Daddy, please?" Arthur's eyes clench; it's almost too much-

Alfred nudges Arthur, suddenly, forces him out of the haze that one is thrown into when between rutting, heated twins. It takes Arthur a couple of moments to collect himself, but when he does, Alfred helps him stand and wobble back to the couch, where he takes his place next to Francis again. 

And then Arthur feels Alfred nuzzling his abdomen from his place on the floor in front of him. He looks down at that cherubic face, eager to please, and and then those fingers are toying at the zipper of his black dress pants, tugging the article of clothing down, off, _off_ , along with his boxers. Arthur lifts his hips, lets Alfred tear his clothes away and toss them carelessly over his shoulder. Any other time Arthur would have condemned him ( _at least have the decency to fold them, git_ ), but not now, not with those eyes staring up at him like that, like Alfred wants to live and breathe for no reason other than to please Arthur, to suck him and suck him and… 

Arthur drags his fingernails lightly across Alfred's scalp, whispers with lidded eyes, "Can't you share with your brother, you greedy boy?" Alfred looks at him, bottom lip sliding into an inviting pout. He wants to complain, wants to say that so far Matthew has been the greedy one, but he keeps his mouth shut and leans in obediently.

Alfred bows his head and takes Arthur's length into his mouth without warning, sinking onto it with an ease that surely came only with practice. Arthur gasps, grits his teeth. His eyes slip closed, brows knitting together in concentration, and then his hand is there, tangling in Alfred's messy, gorgeous locks, because Alfred's mouth (dear _god_ , where did Alfred learn to use his mouth like this?) is on him, sliding up and down his cock as he bobs his head diligently. 

"Is it okay?" Alfred asks after sliding off of Arthur's length with an obscene _pop_ , and it's weird to hear his voice dripping with such care, such genuine care. It's almost humorous, too, because while it sounds as if he's asking about something mundane like the weather forecast of the day, he's actually running his cheek along a certain Englishman's cock, the pre-come collecting on his rosy face. He continues this, breath coming in short gasps as he licks up and down Arthur's length, and he's careless, letting the pearly white drops coat his lips and dribble down his chin and there's even a trace of it in those beautiful fluttering lashes and _fuck, if Arthur has ever been this hard-_

He doesn't think the coiling in his stomach can get any tighter, doesn't think any more blood can go to his cock… And then Alfred's voice, sweet and naive, ringing in his ears like a bell:

"Am I making you feel good, Daddy?" 

Arthur's gasp, broken and shattered, is answer enough. Alfred slides Arthur's cock back into his mouth and _Jesus, does this boy have a gag reflex at all?_ Arthur glances past his desperately rutting hips to watch Alfred's swollen lips, sucking harshly and unforgivingly. Then his gaze drifts to Alfred's eyes, and when he notices that Alfred's been looking up at him this whole time he nearly loses himself.

"Yeah," Arthur finally replies, brushing the hair out of Alfred's eyes lovingly, or maybe selfishly, maybe just because he needs to see more of that face, needs to imagine that face still belongs to him, never stopped belonging to him, _you're still my little boy, Alfred, you're still all mine_ … "Yeah, that's a good lad. Just like that. So pretty on your knees." He keeps praising him, ignoring the breathless, pleading sound of his voice. Alfred moans around Arthur as he slips a hand into his own boxers and closes his fist around his cock, wanting and needing, and the whimper sends vibrations up Arthur's spine, making him arch. 

Alfred pulls away just enough so that his lips still brush against Arthur's length, just enough to murmur a begging, "Let me taste you, Daddy; fill my mouth, _please_ -" And Arthur's lost, spiraling, his orgasm seizing his chest, and he's never felt heaven but he imagines it must feel something like this, deep, tight, wet.

Alfred is close, too, jerking himself off as he sucks on Arthur like he's a lollipop, milking him for all he's worth, taking the face-fucking, swallowing like he could never get enough, never wants to stop making Arthur come, dear god, he never wants to stop… 

"That's my boy," is all Arthur has to whisper as he pets the blond locks before him to make Alfred yelp, crying out as he gives a final hard thrust into his own hand and comes, back curling, mewling, helpless, _don't let it stop_. He inhales sharply, removing himself from Arthur's cock reluctantly to stabilize his breathing. 

Alfred can't explain it, can't explain why pretending to be a colony again gets him so hot and bothered. Maybe it's being owned, being property, being used but being loved, being reduced to a writhing mess. Maybe it's the idea of depending on Arthur, needing him again, _I need your cock, Daddy, need it inside-_

Alfred is beautiful as ever, his lips red and spent under a sheet of Arthur's come. He tries to lick it from the corners of his mouth, tries to lap up the last drops, still thirsty, but Arthur grabs his wrists and pulls him onto his lap where he belongs. Arthur kisses him harshly, wanting to imprint himself on Alfred in any way possible. Alfred kisses him back, deciding that if he can't have more of Arthur's come, then the Brit's mouth is the next best thing.

Arthur reaches out to touch, he has to touch… His fingers wrap around Alfred's forearm, and the gesture seems needy, he supposes, but really, he just has to feel that untainted golden skin, covered and slick with sweat, pouring sex. Sex: Alfred's face, Alfred's body, Alfred's messy honey-colored hair, Alfred's come-stained lips, _Alfred_ , Alfred is sex.

Francis shifts on the couch a couple of feet away. Although the Frenchman doesn't smile, he looks rather smug, content with wicked intentions, and Arthur remembers vaguely that Francis is the only one who hasn't been drinking tonight. He wonders why, briefly, but then he can't keep hold of the thought; it slips away when Francis murmurs a low but weighty, "Matthieu, come to Papa" and pats his lap. Arthur nods at Alfred and glances at Matthew- Alfred nods, understanding. He crawls off of Arthur, sliding onto the floor, placing himself behind Matthew's slim frame on his knees. And although Francis doesn't instruct him to do so, Arthur crawls over to the Frenchman.

A keening noise erupts from the back of Matthew's throat and the Canadian crawls to the man from his place on the floor, quick and fervent, stopping when he's nestled comfortably between Francis' splayed knees, nestling his cheek against a thigh. He looks up at Francis with half-lidded eyes, dilated and clouded, blond lashes batting, _so pretty, Matthieu, you're so pretty; such a good boy for Papa…_

Francis says something in French, and Arthur doesn't understand it, but judging by the moan that slips from Matthew's lips, it must be something good. Hell, doesn't everything sound good in French? Arthur sure thinks so, the hair that rises on his arms at the sexy rolling of Francis' accent sure seems to think so, his cock that twitches at Matthew's desperate expression sure seems to think so.

It must have been an order, Arthur decides, because Matthew eagerly climbs into Francis' lap, limbs slipping childishly, like he doesn't know how to control himself, and maybe he doesn't, maybe he can't remember, maybe none of them can remember… 

"Can I make you feel good, Papa?" Matthew whispers, breath hot as it brushes across Francis' collarbone. Matthew straddles the Frenchman's thighs, shifting his hips until he finds a stable position and leans down to suck a bruise on Francis' skin, which is already tainted with other marks, from Matthew, no doubt, _Francis' neck is reserved for Matthew-_

Francis purrs in Matthew's ear, lacing his fingers in those luscious blond locks and the way he fits with Matthew is absolutely gorgeous. "I wanna make you feel good like you make me feel good," Matthew continues. He presses kisses, filthily chaste, so light they're almost nonexistent, polite and careful like his demeanor, along Francis' jaw and on his face. "Please let me… I wanna, Papa, real bad, so bad." 

Arthur can only hold his breath.

" _Papa_ ," Matthew whines, high and needy, so needy, so pleading, so innocent; he just wants to feel good, just wants to make Francis feel good, _c'mon, Papa, tell me how._

"I know," Francis whispers, raking his fingers through the Canadian's hair comfortingly; Matthew curls into the loving hand that cups his face. "I know you wanna make me feel good, baby. Papa would like your mouth. Can Papa have your mouth?" Matthew smiles, so soft it's almost as if it's been painted on him, and he presses one last kiss to the side of Francis' lips, and his voice is dark and dizzying when he says, "You can have _anything_ you like, Papa." 

Arthur's speechless.

Matthew sinks to the floor and onto his knees, sliding Francis' pants down. He toys with the head of Francis' cock with his tongue until Francis grows impatient and threads his heads through Matt's hair to guide him. The younger man relaxes completely, breathing heavily through his nose as Francis slides his length into his mouth entirely, not stopping until he feels the tip hit the back of Matt's throat.

Francis looks over at Arthur. He doesn't ask, doesn't question, when the Englishman leans in to latch his lips onto Francis' abandoned mouth. Arthur presses himself against Francis as much as possible in this position, their tongues sliding wetly against each other, teeth clinking, but they mold so perfectly, so beautifully, just like ages ago, when they made love, when they fucked, when they kissed and kissed and…

Arthur moans, remembering those times, and it's barely audible, nearly muted, but Francis hears it, loves the sound of it. One of Francis' hands leaves Matthew's hair to hold Arthur's chin, tilting, _look up, dear_ , and his finger traces the shape of Arthur's bony jawline. "What are you thinking about, dirty old man?" Francis whispers. His fragrance, a heavenly perfume, is intoxicating- It wraps around their heads, pulls them closer, closer, until their noses sit next to each other, and their lashes brush against the skin underneath the other's eyes.

"Just you, Francis," Arthur breathes. "Just you."

Francis inhales shakily, captures Arthur's mouth again, claiming him, _you were mine first, remember?_ Arthur lets Francis' tongue make it's way between his lips again without struggling, without fear; _yes, yes, I remember. How could I forget?_

There's a growl, muffled, from below: Matthew.

_How could I forget?_

Arthur smiles, sweet and apologetic as he pulls away from Francis' lips. "I won't touch his neck," he promises, a whisper, and Matthew's glare shimmers for a moment, ignited passion, deeply rooted jealously shining through only as a result of his drunken state, before it drops. "I won't touch his neck…"

Alfred traces random figures on Matthew's back, fingers running up and down that shivering spine, and the Canadian loses his rhythm for a moment. Matthew reaches up, suddenly, and grabs the wrist of the hand Francis had pulled away to lovingly stroke Arthur's chin. He takes it, tugs it back down, places it in his hair, encouraging- _Come on, Papa, fuck my mouth like I know you wanna._

So Francis does. 

He wraps Matthew's hair in tight coils, bundles around his fingers, gripping, _wrenching_. He jerks Matthew forward, releases and lets Matthew's mouth glide to the tip of his cock, jerks him forward, releases, jerks, releases, again and again… All the while Arthur is tweaking at a nipple through Francis' white shirt, twisting, pulling, and kissing him, too, on the side of his mouth. Alfred is still sitting back, watching the whole ordeal, drawing invisible lines along Matthew's back, his canvas, making him shudder. 

Matthew moans around a mouthful of cock, and Francis gives a particularly hard thrust, and Arthur kisses Francis just right, and Alfred makes a whimpering noise, and it's just what Francis needs, just what he wants, _and that's what this is about_. He lets go of Matthew's hair and Matthew pulls away at the warning, jerking Francis to completion with his hands. 

Arthur grins, lazy and sedated, and returns himself to his previous spot on the other side of the couch to give room for Matthew. Matthew immediately begins cleaning the come from Francis' abdomen with his tongue, lapping at it while Francis runs his fingers through the lengths of Matthew's blond locks as if to praise him. Matthew licks, licks, licks between vehement breaths of "Papa- Papa- Papa-" 

And finally, when it's all gone, Matthew crawls back into Francis' lap, burying his face in the crook of the man's neck. They breathe each other for a moment, just laying there, limp in the other's embrace, nothing but sweat and come and lust, still, growing yet again, never-ending, a continuous cycle of pleasure they can't imagine breaking… 

"You're so 'ard, baby," Francis murmurs, nuzzling his nose into Matthew's hair, stroking and rubbing his back. It's quiet again, as though Francis is contemplating, and then, with a meek smile, he says: "Would you like to fuck your brother?" 

Matthew's breath catches in a sharp inhale and his bottom lip pouts out, jutting and inviting as he nods softly, clenching his eyes shut and attempting to hide his blushing face. His hands grasp onto the fabric of Francis' still-present shirt, twisting the cloth painfully in his grip. "Papa," he mutters. "Papa, I've never…" 

Topped. Arthur's heart skips at the thought of witnessing Matthew's first time topping, at seeing the blond melt with the rush of dominating, hot with the high of taking- 

Francis kisses Matthew's forehead. "I'll walk you through it, mon cher." He tilts his head to look over Matthew's shoulder at Alfred, who is still sitting on the floor. "Of course, only if that is okay with you, Al." And Alfred grins, all white teeth and pink lips, answers with a hearty, simple, very American "Yeah." Francis grins. "Go on, then," he says with a smile, nudging Matthew gently, trying to encourage him and pry him out of this sudden onset of coyness, this other character he has perfected. 

Matthew turns in Francis' lap and looks down at Alfred, who is still waiting patiently on the floor with that- _Come 'ere, Little Brother_ \- damned smile. Matthew sucks in a deep breath, sliding shakily off of Francis and onto the floor before pushing his brother back with a flat palm and the force of a kiss. Francis and Arthur are quick to follow, kneeling beside the duo. 

Matthew's mouth glides down Alfred, his lips dragging across the expanse of his chest and to his stomach and finally playing at the top of Alfred's boxers. He toys with them for a moment, licking eagerly along the span of the hem, pulling back the elastic waistband, sending goosebumps erupting across Alfred's arms, and then finally, _finally_ , he tugs them down with hooked fingers, revealing Alfred's hard-on… 

_Beautiful_ , Arthur thinks. But then, everything about Alfred is gut-wrenchingly beautiful.

Matthew presses a teasing kiss to the tip of Alfred's erection, watches it twitch in reaction, drinks the pre-come that cascades from the slit. "Papa and I were watching you," Matthew murmurs, lips white hot against the inside of the American's thigh. "You're pretty when you're sucking Daddy's cock." Alfred groans, hips bucking despite himself. 

Sitting up, Matthew offers three of his fingers to Alfred's waiting mouth. The American stares at him for awhile, blue and violet eyes meeting, and the colors start swirling, and no one moves, the air too heavy to breathe. Then Alfred grips Matthew's wrist, lets those finger dip between his lips, can taste the saltiness of Matthew's sweat mingled with the ever-present tang of Francis' come. He sucks them, grasping and greedy, ravenous, almost, as he soaks them, lets his spit dribble from the corners of his mouth.

Matthew watches, so transfixed and mesmerized that when Alfred finally pulls the fingers out, he almost doesn't notice. The air is cool against his wet skin and Alfred smiles lazily at him, head tilting to rest his cheek against the floor, _I'm yours, Mattie, just like you always wanted; I know you've dreamt about taking me, I know-_

Matthew shivers, closes his eyes, composes himself before looking to Francis. The man smiles at Matthew's hesitancy and Arthur stares with wide, unblinking eyes. Francis takes Matthew's saliva-coated fingers and directs them to Alfred's entrance, pushes them inside, makes Alfred purr, and _oh_ , that's such a pretty noise, Matthew thinks; he wants to pull out more of those sounds, wants to make Alfred mewl, enraptured, completely surrendered.

"Curl your fingers; just like when you play with yourself for Papa, Matthieu," Francis instructs, staring at the boy and rejoicing in the way his face grows heated. 

Alfred shifts his hips, staring down the terrain of his body at his twin, urging him to continue. Matthew curls and uncurls his fingers to the rhythm of Alfred's breathing. He pokes around, moving, seeking, wanting to make Alfred feel good, and Alfred sinks onto the digits, fucking himself on those fingers, _such a sight, so pretty like that._ Quiet moans escape past his chapped lips, his hair spilling behind him on the floor. Matthew's breath hitches at the sight of Alfred so pleasured, and he wraps his free hand around Alfred's cock, pumping, wanting to push him over the edge because there is nothing like being the one to make Alfred come- 

Alfred groans, eyes rolling back. His fingers grip the carpet at his sides, pulling him down and closer to Matthew, wanting more, needing more; he needs more than those fingers, he needs the stretch, the pressure, the burn, the fill, please, _please-_

"Fuck me," Alfred demands, voice raspy and breathless as his hand flies up to grasp his brother's, halting his movements. "Matt, fuck me." 

Matthew nods readily, pulling both of his hands away, and Alfred holds back a pitiful noise at the loss. Francis takes over again, whispering something in Matthew's ear, a hand on his back as Matthew crawls over Alfred's form after slipping out of his boxers, and both stare at each other longingly. Matthew inhales through his nose, and Alfred places his hands on his hips to help guide him inside, trying to pace the way he inches in so that they both have the appropriate time to adjust. Arthur watches, completely enamored and transfixed by the way the two read each other without so much as speaking.

Matthew slides in for the first time, the first time with this kind of heat, the first time with this kind of tightness; _everything is gorgeous._ The noise he makes is lovely, a sweet, shy, spine-tingling, broken cry tumbling past his lips. His eyes shut and his head falls forward to rest on Alfred's shoulder. He buries his face in the American's neck, biting the skin there to prevent himself from moving. He stays like that until he's able to grasp onto some sense of control and finally he pulls his face back to see his brother, to see if his brother likes this as much as he does, _oh god, oh Christ, oh Alfred-_

And yes, Alfred is utterly magnificent in submission. His eyelids flutter at his brother's size; his back is a rod, placid, tense, held in a perfect curve for a few breathless moments before his chest falls with an exhale and his spine with it. He stares up at Matthew with a delirious look in his eyes. Matthew's expression is questioning and eager, _do you like this, Al, am I doing okay, are you okay, does it feel good?_

" _Matthew_ ," Alfred gasps when he remembers his voice, and hearing his full name ripped from his brother's mouth like that, _oh fuck_ , Matt almost has to pull out-

"Matthieu," Francis says, and the boy in question manages to control himself before falling over the edge, albeit with shaking limbs and a shuddering breath. "Matthieu, you 'ave to move, mon amour." 

Matthew presses forward experimentally with the caress of Francis' hand on his back. "Take your time, Matt," Alfred whispers sweetly, brushing the long strands of blond from his brother's sweaty forehead, out of his shut eyes. Matthew inhales sharply, breath coming in hurried puffs, and- "Al," he sobs, grinding his teeth, trying to rock his hips, but he can't, he can't… "Al-"

Alfred lifts his hips, understanding Matthew's desperate whimpers, and Matt is more grateful than ever. His eyes roll back at the friction, so Alfred continues, keeps taking Matthew in before tangling his fingers in Matthew's hair and tugging him down for a kiss, reassuring, before murmuring a barely audible, "Fuck me, Matthieu, s'il vous plaît." 

Matthew moans, or rather, he feels like moaning, but when he opens his mouth, nothing comes out, because dear god, Alfred begging to be fucked in his language... 

Alfred wraps his arms around Matthew's neck to pull him close and whispers something liquor-lovely. His hands skate up Matthew's neck and rake blond strands through his spindly fingers, and that's enough to make Matthew whine and close his eyes again, wetness pooling beneath them, overwhelmed by the sensation of Alfred clenching around him. Francis is there, still, steadying him, urging him to move, and Matthew does when he hears his heart thrumming hazily in his eardrums, a consistent _thump, thump, thump_ , the perfect rhythm, so he starts fucking Al to it, a steady in, out, in, out- 

Matthew, eyes glimmering, slides a hand down Alfred's thigh before gripping and hoisting it. Alfred takes the hint, hugging Matthew's waist with his legs, pulling their groins flush against one another; the feeling is wonderful, judging by their appreciative purrs. Matthew starts rocking his hips, leaning down to kiss Alfred as the American tries desperately to meet his thrusts halfway. It's sloppy, wet, more of a clashing of teeth than anything. Alfred breaks away from Matt's lips, a heavy, stuttering exhale escaping his wonderfully reddened lips as he stares directly into Matthew's unwavering gaze, both unable to break the contact, _just like this, Matt; I want you raw, just like this._

Alfred pulls Matt in with his legs, finding a pace that's both leisurely and urgent, and it's obvious that Matthew is comfortable like this. Not just comfortable, no, but _experienced_ , not experienced with sex, but experienced with Alfred; he knows Alfred, he knows how to play Alfred, knows that, as strong as Alfred is, the American loves his brother because Matthew is _soft_ , is everything Alfred can't be, never could be… He knows that Alfred likes sex that way, sometimes, likes to make love and be careful, likes to try to be gentle, even with those big hands of his, and that untamable strength. 

And in turn, Alfred knows Matthew. He knows how to play Matthew, knows that, as soft as Matthew is, the Canadian loves his brother because Alfred is _hard_ , is everything Matthew can't be, never could be… He knows that Matthew likes sex that way, sometimes, likes to fuck and be reckless, likes to try to be rough, even with that quiet voice of his, and those eyes that dart nervously to the ground at the first sign of conflict. 

Even now, even in their drunken stupor, they know. Alfred knows that Matthew needs him to grab his hair and tug ruthlessly without regard to the Canadian's pain; Matthew knows that Alfred needs him to drag his nails so lightly across the American's skin that it tickles, almost, is sweet, teasing, adoring, _I love you, Al._

Arthur feels something radiating off of the duo and he thinks that it may be nostalgia, figures that the two are remembering how they used to do this, used to sneak off into each other's room to fuck, needing to release the tension of all those bottled up hormones, needing to come, not even able to wait for their clothes to be torn off before crying out-

Matthew cries out first, cries out as the tension scatters and fades, his voice snapping like a whip in the silence: "Yes, oh god, oh fuck- _Alfred!_ " He buries himself deep, tries to prolong it, wants to stay in that tight heat forever, thrusting again, again, again; it's too much and not enough, _take me deeper_ \- His body shudders, unable to hold the power of his orgasm, and Arthur watches as the pleasure ripples visibly to the tips of his clasping, pale fingers and seems to slither into Alfred, who follows closely behind him, teeth gritting, eyes clenching, grunting out a hoarse, choked, " _Jesus_ , Mattie!" The two are nothing short of angelic when they come, cheeks tinged with a rosy pigment, necks flushing red, torsos tensing, mouths dropping into perfect O's… 

It isn't fair.

But maybe that's the liquor talking.


End file.
